sans Merci
by yourkai
Summary: Draco Malfoy is the perfect Death Eater. His father has raised him to be the perfect servant for the Dark Lord, and a leader for everyone else. What happens when the boy who should be perfect isn’t? [HGDM]
1. amour maternel

Summary: Draco Malfoy is the perfect Death Eater. His father has raised him to be the perfect servant for the Dark Lord, and a leader for everyone else. What happens when the boy who should be perfect- isn't?

Disclaimer: If I owned Draco, I assure you he would be fettered somewhere in my room. Glancing about my room, I see no tall blonde dark wizard. This brings us both to the conclusion that I do not own Draco. Furthermore, I do not own any of Mrs. Rowling's other characters. I've just borrowed them for my nefarious ends.

Author's Note: I'll try to update regularly. If I don't, I suggest you mail me and bother me frequently, I'm sure I'll cave quickly to attention.

**amour maternel  
prelude**

_Dearest Draco,_

_I wish you a happy birthday, my darling boy. Though I can imagine your face upon reading this letter, I do hope you'll humor me and let me wax nostalgic about your childhood.  
_

_I remember when you were born. You know well that Lucius and I tried over and over to have a child, and I had several miscarriages before you were born. I was so frightened, that day- what if you died? But when the midwife let me hold you, I was the happiest woman alive. You of course know the reason for your conception; every family needs an heir. But don't think that this was the only reason, and never think that I have loved you for what you are, not who you are. You are my son, and while your father was pleased at having one to carry on the Malfoy name, he was also much pleased to have a child of his own._

_When you were a child, I always prayed that you would be allowed to live a normal life. Things were terrible when you were born- but they got better, and you know how I mean. Your father still insisted on raising you to be a proper heir, and I'm afraid you lost much of your childhood. I argued with him then- I argue with him still. I wanted you to have a childhood, I wanted to see you play and smile without wondering how Somebody would see it, if it was a Bad Thing to laugh. By the time you were seven, you were too dignified to laugh. But before then- there were things, moments when you behaved like a little boy should- Do you remember your first teddy? Your father thought me such a fool, but you loved that little brown bear. I looked through the Manor for it today, but I couldn't find it. Pity, but I suppose it has lost its charm for you now._

_There was a time when you first understood what it was to be a Malfoy. You were nine. You discovered that sometimes, people have to take measures to survive. You hated it. Do you still?_

_When you went away to school, I was so glad it was Hogwarts and not Durmstrang. Because Hogwarts is nearer, and safer, and- though I never admitted it to your father- I feared what you might learn at Durmstrang. You were eager, but by the third week you sent me letters asking to come back home. Again, you learned a lesson that sometimes, people have to do things they dislike._

_I have trouble believing you are fifteen, and now a man. I wish you could have remained my little boy for longer. Happy birthday, son, and remember that I love you. _

_Love always,  
Your Mother_

Narcissa Malfoy tucked the letter into an envelope, melting wax onto the flap. She did love her son, as the letter stated, but she was not so gentle as to write a meaningless birthday wish. Her lovely countenance was hidden for a moment by the worried frown that creased her brow and pursed her lips into a white line, and then she was pressing a signet ring into the hardening wax. A calligraphic "M" was impressed on the green, and she tapped it with her wand. The impression was stained silver, and she tapped it again, breathing words that would ward the letter against intrusion.

Then she summoned her dignified grey owl with another practiced flick. Archimedes came to the window of her stately study in the Malfoy manor, and Narcissa stood to tie the letter to his leg, black dress robes floating around her legs.

She knew her son would interpret the warning correctly. Three days ago, Lucius had given her chilling news.

_Narcissa, he is ready._


	2. mauvaises nouvelles

**Disclaimer: All characters mentioned are the property of the lovely Mrs. Rowling. All locations are the same. Etc, etc. I'm borrowing them. If you recognize it- it's not mine.**

**Author's Note: I much appreciate the reviews! I'm not particularly sure I'm allowed to reply to them, as I've seen others get in trouble, so just know that this is a thanks to each and every one of you that has taken the time to read my story thus far. I promise the chapters will get longer once we actually delve into the story.**

_mauvaises nouvelles_  
or, 'bad news'

There was a running bet in Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Commons pertaining to Draco Malfoy. Dean Thomas was bookie for Gryffindor, and he concerted his effort with Terry Boot of Ravenclaw. The terms of the bet were as such; Draco Malfoy was such an obnoxious prat that he must have some hidden reason. Most bets were placed on "child abuse" and the concept that his Death Eater father beat him so the boy would follow his will. A few, more tentative bets speculated sexual abuse, possibly by You-Know-Who himself. Hermione Granger had her money on "secretly homosexual and doesn't know how to handle it", despite the fact that betting was distinctly against school policy and had been, ever since Hogwarts, a History was conceived. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley stuck with the old standby "he really is just a slimy ferret", as did many other Gryffindors. The predominant bet among Ravenclaws, however, was that Malfoy had some sort of mental disorder.

Terry sighed. Bloody Ravenclaws thinking everything could be explained away by the brain. He was of the (rather correct) opinion that Draco Malfoy was just an arse. However, Terry was an enterprising young gentleman, and so he took a cut of the bets, as his 'fee' for recording everything. Little did the bettors know, however, the reasons for Draco Malfoy's terrible personality were all very easy to discern, with a bit of logic- and reading between the lines of Draco's latest letter.

The letter, of course, arrived via Archimedes on the morning of Draco's fifteenth birthday. The great owl fluttered to him, landing pristine on one robed shoulder, and Draco turned to it with a faint grin. He frowned, however, noting that it had no packages, just a letter. Very well. He had other packages- he kept having to periodically Banish them into his quarters as they assaulted the breakfast table. Some bettors noticed this frown and decided to put another sickle on "spoiled brat."

Draco read the letter.

Draco read the letter again.

Then, Blaise Zabini noted that the poor boy was trembling, as did one or two of Draco's other Slytherin cronies. None of these observant folk happened to be Crabbe or Goyle, both occupied in shoving food down their mouths in a manner quite similar to Ron Weasley across the hall. Draco and Hermione both muttered distractedly- "Chew, please," and "_Honestly,"_ respectively. Hermione was occupied in an edition of the Daily Prophet, but our more important protagonist was discovering that he was to be a Death Eater. _But I'm fifteen!_ He thought miserably.

For his mother's letter read, in her neat script,

_Dearest Draco,_

_I wish you a happy birthday, my darling boy. Though I can imagine your face upon reading this letter, I do hope you'll humor me and let me wax nostalgic about your childhood.  
_

_I remember when you were born. You know well that Lucius and I tried over and over to have a child, and I had several miscarriages before you were born. I was so frightened, that day- what if you died? But when the midwife let me hold you, I was the happiest woman alive. You of course know the reason for your conception; every family needs an heir. But don't think that this was the only reason, and never think that I have loved you for what you are, not who you are. You are my son, and while your father was pleased at having one to carry on the Malfoy name, he was also much pleased to have a child of his own._

_  
When you were a child, I always prayed that you would be allowed to live a normal life. Things were terrible when you were born- but they got better, and you know how I mean. Your father still insisted on raising you to be a proper heir, and I'm afraid you lost much of your childhood. I argued with him then- I argue with him still. I wanted you to have a childhood, I wanted to see you play and smile without wondering how Somebody would see it, if it was a Bad Thing to laugh. By the time you were seven, you were too dignified to laugh. But before then- there were things, moments when you behaved like a little boy should- Do you remember your first teddy? Your father thought me such a fool, but you loved that little brown bear. I looked through the Manor for it today, but I couldn't find it. Pity, but I suppose it has lost its charm for you now._

_There was a time when you first understood what it was to be a Malfoy. You were nine. You discovered that sometimes, people have to take measures to survive. You hated it. Do you still?_

_When you went away to school, I was so glad it was Hogwarts and not Durmstrang. Because Hogwarts is nearer, and safer, and- though I never admitted it to your father- I feared what you might learn at Durmstrang. You were eager, but by the third week you sent me letters asking to come back home. Again, you learned a lesson that sometimes, people have to do things they dislike._

_I have trouble believing you are fifteen, and now a man. I wish you could have remained my little boy for longer. Happy birthday, son, and remember that I love you. _

_Love always,_

_Your Mother_

Narcissa Malfoy _never_ waxed pathetic unless there was a significant motivating factor. Draco was under the unmistaken impression that she loved him as he did her, but the Malfoy family was hardly known for displays of affection. The lines "people have to do things they dislike" and, more importantly, "you are fifteen, and now a man", told him that he was to enter the family business. This idea was reinforced by the mention of what it was to be a Malfoy, and how he hated the concept.

_Mother doesn't want me to follow him!_ He thought suddenly with remarkable clarity. She wouldn't ask if he still hated those 'measures' unless she didn't ally with his father.

Draco didn't come to all of these discoveries on his own. There had been many, many subtle hints over the years that Narcissa thought allying with Voldemort foolish. None had been visible enough for his father to notice- or hopefully, they had not been. Narcissa was a calculating woman, and for the first time, Draco entertained thoughts that she had sent him here, to Hogwarts, not solely because she'd miss him, but because the environment at Durmstrang would turn him into the likeness of his father.

However, the mention of his teddy perplexed him. Of course he remembered it. He had shrunk it and tucked it in his pocket every year of leaving home. It was currently transfigured into a small snake charm and kept in his trunk.

Charm.

Perhaps, that teddy was important. _Dear Merlin, Mother, you do frighten me sometimes._

Draco smiled slightly at his mother's wit, but then the blood again drained from his pallid countenance.

Oh Merlin.

He turned to Blaise, who was watching him with the shrewd stare that every Slytherin must be blessed with at birth. Or cursed. The matter was up to debate. He mostly trusted the other boy, who had given every impression that he felt like Draco did in these matters. And so he shook his head at him, glancing down at the Malfoy seal once more. Blaise gave no condolences, not here at the table where a dozen other Slytherins might listen, were probably already listening. Instead he said dryly,

"So, your mother decided you hadn't been writing enough to receive gifts, did she?"

"Evidently."

Said the spoiled, unabused, unassaulted Malfoy heir, sighing theatrically and tucking his hair back with fingers uncalloused from work. Aristocratic, pale hands that often toyed with his yew wand. Aristocratic hands that were always, always protected by gloves when he flew. Aristocratic hands that would be very shortly expected to twirl his wand in the incantation for the Killing Curse.

Draco thought he was going to be ill.


End file.
